


Kindled

by wingedspirit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 05:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: The Fallen can’t love.





	Kindled

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt challenge on the Ace Omens Discord.

There are things Crowley does not say.

It’s not because Aziraphale does not want to hear them; he does, more than anything in the world.

But the Fallen can’t love.

_I love you_, Crowley had said, in Rome, as they walked side by side along the Tiber; and then he’d gone still, and silent, and closed his eyes.

A moment had passed, another, and then Crowley had slowly opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, angel,” he’d said. “Must’ve gotten distracted there for a bit. What were we saying?”

_I love you_, Crowley had said, in Athens; and then he’d gone so white he’d looked as if he might’ve been carved from marble.

And then he’d screamed.

Nobody had heard him, nobody had seen. All the humans around them had carried on unawares. Only Aziraphale had stood witness, had watched his friend — his _love_ — scream and sob himself hoarse.

When the screaming had finally subsided, Crowley had shuddered, and then carried on the conversation from before, as if nothing had happened, his ragged voice the only indication that something had gone very badly wrong indeed.

_I love you_, Crowley had said, in Constantinople.

He’d thrown up blood, that time, when he was done screaming.

_I love you_, Crowley had said, at Arthur’s court.

That time, amidst the screaming, Crowley had _begged_, brokenly. _No, no, please, don’t take this from me, please, it’s all I have, please, please _—

_I love you_, Crowley had said. In Venice, in Madrid, in Paris, in London, wherever they’d found themselves.

Every time, the backlash had been worse. And every time, Crowley had forgotten.

The Fallen can’t love; as it turns out, that statement is prescriptive, not descriptive.

Over time, Aziraphale had learned to read Crowley’s face, had learned to tell the particular look that would always precede a confession; and the next time Crowley had opened his mouth to say the words, Aziraphale had clamped a hand over his mouth before he could get them out, and had explained.

The worst part of the discussion that followed had been how unsurprised and resigned Crowley had looked throughout.

Over time, they’ve worked out, by trial and painful error, exactly where the boundaries lie.

Peripheral expressions of feelings are out, although the backlash is somewhat less severe — _I love spending time with you_ had merely knocked Crowley out cold and left him unconscious for a week.

Any sort of physical intimacy beyond simple hand-holding is also prohibited, as they’d found out late one evening. Several bottles deep into a maudlin conversation, Aziraphale had pulled Crowley close, and kissed him; Crowley had kissed back, and for a moment, everything had been perfect —

— and then the backlash had kicked in, and Crowley had started screaming. The worst part of that had been how tightly he’d clung to Aziraphale; and how Aziraphale had had to forcefully pry him off and push him away, for fear that it might set off another punishment.

And so they don’t touch.

And so —

_I love you_, Crowley can’t say.

_Yes, alright, I’ll do that one, my treat_, Crowley says, instead, knowing that Aziraphale will understand. _You’re lucky I was in the area. Little demonic miracle of my own. I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go._

_We have to work together._

_Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together._

_I lost my best friend._

_Hey, Aziraphale, I see you found a ride. Nice dress. Suits you._

_It was nice knowing you._

* * *

“I don’t think you need to go worryin’,” Adam says. “I know all about you two. Don’t you worry.”

* * *

_You can stay at my place, if you like._

_We’re on our own side._

On the bus to London, they sit side by side, Crowley clutching Aziraphale’s hand like a lifeline. “Angel. What Adam said. What if —”

“_Don’t_, Crowley. Not today. Not after everything that’s happened. I don’t think I could bear it, if you forgot again right now.”

But of the two of them, Crowley has always been the brave one. “If after everything that’s happened today I still can’t say it, I never will be able to. May as well do it now.” And he straightens, and sets his jaw, and says, like a man facing down a firing squad: “I love you.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and squeezes Crowley’s hand tightly, and waits for the screaming to begin.

It doesn’t.

What comes, instead, is a kiss — little more than a soft brush of lips against his.

Aziraphale’s eyes fly open. Crowley is smiling at him, wide and soft and unabashedly happy. “I love you,” he says, again.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, tears pricking at his eyes, pulling him in for another kiss, a proper one this time. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Adam's line is lifted wholesale from the book.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
